Wearing Trudy
by Julie Fortune
Summary: Stranded at Mnok's apartment, Sharona is offered something unexpected ... but whether she accepts or refuses, it might destroy everything.


WEARING TRUDY  
  
a "Monk" story  
  
Julie Fortune 02/01/2004  
  
juliefortune@comcast.net  
  
Thanks to my fearless beta readers: CrazyMadJo and Starlet2367. You guys keep me honest. And kinda sane.  
  
He was at it again, and he was driving her bananas.  
  
"Adrian," Sharona said, without looking up, "would you stop already? The magazines are straight."  
  
"No ... no, they're not, there's ... there's this corner ... sticking out ..."  
  
"Adrian!" She snapped his name like a whip, saw his hands jerk guiltily away from the stack of National Geographic she'd put on the table. Not his, of course. She'd picked them up at the half-price bookstore for Benjy, which was why they were dog-eared and creased and not the property of Adrian Monk.  
  
Plus, they were crooked. At least, to him.  
  
"Sorry," he said, and wandered away again. Or seemed to, but as she read the rest of the article about African elephants, she tracked him with her peripheral vision. He stayed close. He was watching the stack, of course, not her. She barely registered for him, except when he needed something - no, that wasn't fair, Adrian really was sweet, and he really did care, but when he got like this, God, he was annoying.  
  
"Adrian," she said firmly. "Sit."  
  
"But - "  
  
"Sit."  
  
He went to the couch and perched there, hands on his knees. She finished the article, decided it was okay for Benjy, and marked the page with a yellow Post-it. Then she flipped through the rest of the magazine, found one of those naked-breasts pictures boys found so riveting, and carefully applied a black marker bikini, and a smiley face sticky note that meant it was mom-approved. Maybe she was overprotective, but she liked it that way. She thought maybe, for all his faces and embarrassment, that he liked it, too.  
  
Adrian, who hadn't taken off his gray suit jacket even though they'd been home for an hour, sat there stiff as a statue. Palms flat on his knees. When she looked up, she saw he was watching her with that hurt-puppy expression, the one he knew she hated because it really did make her feel guilty.  
  
"What?" she snapped. "Oh, for God's sake, Adrian, fine. Go ahead. Straighten the magazines."  
  
He practically leapt across the room, picked up the slithery stack of National Geographic, and immediately dropped half of them on the floor. Then it was the two of them down on their knees, gathering them up. Sharona handed hers over, and he very carefully squared the corners until it was absolute perfection, then looked up with that luminous smile of his ...  
  
... and the lights just went out.  
  
Sharona reached out instinctively and grabbed Adrian's lapel; the instant slap of darkness made her dizzy. His hand closed over her arm, holding her steady, and for a second she felt his body warmth, smelled the subtle fresh astringence of his cologne.  
  
"It's just the lights," he said. There was a tremor in his voice. She could almost feel the effort he made to stay focused. "Just stay still for a minute. They'll come back on."  
  
She waited for nearly two minutes, but the lights didn't come on. The streetlights were out, too ... there was nothing but night outside of the windows, thick and forbidding. God, had it gotten that dark? It was only seven o'clock, she'd been intending to start for home by six thirty. Benjy was at camp for two more days, but she'd been meaning to pick up that new Disney pirate movie for him, the one with Johnny Depp in drag ...  
  
"It's okay, Adrian," she finally said, and eased free of his grip. "I'm just gonna check it out. Here, come with me." She took his hand and pulled him around the dining room table to the closest window. "Oh, wow. Look at that!"  
  
"What?" Adrian leaned over her shoulder. "There's nothing - "  
  
" - out there. Yeah. Exactly." She turned to look at him; without any kind of light except a faint, milky starshine, he hardly even looked like himself. A black and white version of Adrian Monk, heavy on the contrast. "You see any lights?"  
  
"Just - navigation lights."  
  
"Yeah, the ones powered by generators. We're in a blackout."  
  
"For how long?"  
  
"Jeez, how would I know? ... Where's your flashlight?"  
  
"In the kitchen cabinet, next to the refrigerator," he said absently. He stayed at the window, staring out; she couldn't tell if any of this was making him nervous. He didn't have the usual, well, flutter. "Candles in the china cabinet, second drawer on the left. Matches too."  
  
She retrieved the flashlight, used it to map her way through a suddenly unfamiliar narrow tunnel of color to the big china cabinet, where Trudy had kept her mother's silver and plates. Yep, second drawer, there were unopened boxes of fresh candles, matches, candleholders ... she took everything out and set it up on the table, then started lighting up.  
  
"Better?" she asked. Adrian was still at the windows; the warm yellow glow made the place look ... well, sweet. Kind of homey, which was a weird thought. She associated homey with a comfortable kind of clutter, with Benjy and toys and the hand-knitted afghan her mother gave her that she never remembered to fold ... with Matchbox cars left on tables like little enamel gems, and half-read romance novels next to her favorite chair. Nothing like that here. Everything was in its place, vacuumed and dusted to within an inch of its life.  
  
But still ... homey. Charming, kinda. Maybe that had been Trudy's contribution, that touch of humanity, of color, of home.  
  
In all the years Sharona had been working for him, Monk had never failed to mention Trudy at least once a day. Seven years in the ground, and his wife still existed here, still lived here in a way Sharona found both sweet and creepy ... like any time now she'd turn and find the petite, pretty woman from the pictures standing behind her, smiling.  
  
But then, if that had been true, Sharona would have been out of a job, and she was too practical to believe in ghosts, anyway.  
  
"Adrian," she called. He hadn't moved. He was still staring out at the dark San Francisco streets, all those glittering lights gone dark and still. "Adrian, c'mon. Come sit down. Look, I need to start home, traffic's gonna be a nightmare."  
  
She picked up the neatly stacked magazines and stuffed them into her bag, next to the hair spray and makeup and Tampons. Keys, keys ... purse ... jacket ... She shrugged on her leather coat and saw that Monk hadn't come back to the table.  
  
Still at the window.  
  
Oh, God. This was going to be a thing, wasn't it.  
  
"You can't go," he said. That wasn't his usual wheedling tone, the one that was a negotiating ploy for another half hour or so; this was a naked plea. "Sharona - "  
  
"It's just a power outage, Adrian, honestly, it'll be fine. Look, if I don't get moving, I'm gonna be out there stuck all night. You know how this city gets. It isn't safe."  
  
"Exactly." He turned away, and the candlelight caught and flared in his dark eyes. She blinked, and it was gone, he was just Adrian again, familiar and harmless. "It isn't safe. You can't go out there. Can't you see? It's all backed up out there, really, it's a ... "  
  
He gestured helplessly. She joined him at the window and looked out at a winding snake of red taillights. The stop lights were out. It was a parking lot out there, and even with the windows closed she could hear the bray of horns starting up. Great. Just ... great.  
  
The horror of it hit her a few seconds later.  
  
"Oh my God," she said, and her full Jersey accent took over. "I'm stuck. I'm stuck here. No way in hell. I've gotta go."  
  
She spun on one high heel and grabbed the phone from the table. Out, of course. Her cell phone got a fast-beeping out-of-service. She banged it on the table; Monk winced and tried to grab it, but she twirled away and hit SEND again. "Come on, please, one signal, just one ..."  
  
"Who are you calling?" Adrian asked. He sounded weirdly reasonable.  
  
"Captain Stottlemeier. Maybe he can send a car - or Lieutenant Disher, he likes me, maybe he'll come ..."  
  
"Sharona, the police are going to have plenty to do without being your taxi service. Besides, you'll never get a -"  
  
" - signal, thank you God ..." She dialed the phone and heard the sweet sound of ringing. "Come on, Captain, please, don't - "  
  
"Stottlemeier." His voice had that vibrating wire sound of a man ready to blow. She swallowed hard as it hit her what a really bad idea this had been. Adrian was right. The cops had plenty on their plates to worry about without - "Hello? Anybody there?"  
  
"Sorry," she mumbled, and hung up. Adrian was staring at her from across the table. "Well? You're right, okay. Okay? They have a lot to handle. I can't ask them to come all the way out here to give me a police escort. Besides, Benjy's not even at home."  
  
"Good! Good. I mean - then he's safe. Somewhere else." What was up with him? Nervous as a cat, she was used to that, but he was also weird. Er. "Then we should eat."  
  
"Tell me it isn't casserole night." There were days when she cursed Trudy and her magical meal planner; he never varied from it, like it was sacred words written in stone. She'd tried for nearly a year to convince him it was okay to substitute just once, but ...  
  
"No, it's soup night. I have soup." He sounded delighted. "Two cans."  
  
"Wonderful." Sharona sighed and picked up a tea candle from the table. "Let's get cooking."  
  
Adrian's kitchen was - as always - spotless. Everything clean and totally orderly. Even the pantry was regimental ... taller cans in back, shorter ones in front, everything sorted by some system she didn't understand and didn't care to learn. Soup was easy to find. She set the cans on the counter as Adrian got down bowls.  
  
She attached the first can to the electric opener ... and then smacked herself in the forehead. "Damn it. Do you have a - "  
  
He silently handed her a manual can opener. Well, actually, he handed her manual can opener in a sealed package. She broke the box open, started to fasten it on the can, and stopped to look at him. "You throw these away, don't you? When you're done with them. You don't use them again."  
  
"Are you kidding? Do you have any idea how many germs there are on those when you reuse them? It's like a little botulism factory - "  
  
"Never mind." She opened the first can, then moved mercilessly on to the second before he could intercept her with a fresh can opener. "There. All done."  
  
Adrian grabbed the opener and wrapped it in tissue paper before dropping it in the trash. He had a pan set out on the stove. She dumped the chicken soup, adjusted the heat, and walked away. Adrian adjusted it again, of course. Up and down until the gas flame was just the right regimental height. Well, at least he had gas. Otherwise, they'd be eating cold soup.  
  
She folded her arms and leaned back against the refrigerator, watching him. He added an exact amount of salt, an exact amount of pepper, a fresh wooden spoon out of an unopened package, and stirred. For him, she supposed, this was positively roughing it, but he was doing amazingly well.  
  
"You okay?" she asked him.  
  
"I'm fine." My God, was he really coping? "I don't like it too hot, is that okay?"  
  
Okay, that was downright weird. Asking wasn't the Monk Way; he made things to his taste, and if that wasn't how you liked it, well, he'd be sorry. Genuinely baffled, too. "Yeah, that's fine. I hate burning my tongue."  
  
"Me too. Trudy used to - " He stopped, dead. Stopped stirring the pot. It was like somebody had turned him off as effectively as the lights outside.  
  
"Adrian?"  
  
The spoon began to drag through the chicken noodle soup again, slowly. Winding him up. He finally said, "I just thought ... you're the first ... woman ... to have dinner here since ..."  
  
"Since Trudy?" she finished for him gently. "Maybe this is a good thing, me being here."  
  
He nodded toward the pot. "Yeah. Probably."  
  
He served the soup with a polished silver ladle into bowls he insisted she wash twice in boiling water before they were clean enough, and she just knew he'd disinfected them every week whether they'd been used or not. But the soup was good, anyway, and they sat down at the table with real silverware and two glasses of wine from a bottle with an actual cork.  
  
"It's Merlot," he explained, and turned the crystal so that the facets in the glass caught the candlelight. "Trudy always liked it. I get the same kind, twice a month. One glass every night." And then, that strange little smile he sometimes gave her. "Guess I'll have to order it earlier this time."  
  
"Oh, yeah, my one glass of wine's gonna screw up your whole system." Actually, it probably would. That was the sad thing about it. He'd loosened up so much, but she didn't think there were some things he'd ever really shed. Touchstones. Comfort zones. "Thank you, it's very good." She meant it. God knew, on her salary, she couldn't afford box wine, much less anything like this stuff; it went down like butter. Butter with a bite. "How's your soup?"  
  
"Good." He spooned up another mouthful to prove it, probably with too much enthusiasm. "Yours?"  
  
"It came out of the same pot."  
  
"Oh. Right." He fidgeted with his knife and fork, lining them up on the spotless linen. "It could have ... come out different. From ... you know ... one bowl to the ... "  
  
"Adrian, are you nervous? Having me here?" Sharona took a sip of wine, then another one, and found the glass had gone dry. Oops. Probably shouldn't have guzzled it, but she was kind of nervous herself. Not that in a million years she'd ever be attracted to Adrian Monk, for God's sake, he was a walking mass of problems and she had plenty of her own to deal with, plus he paid her ... but still. Wine. Candlelight, even if it was kind of necessary.  
  
And although canned Campbell's Soup wasn't exactly on the romantic program, it did qualify as a dinner.  
  
"N-no," he said, and took a gulp of wine himself. "It's just ... weird."  
  
"We've eaten together. All the time."  
  
"Not with ..."  
  
"Candlelight," she supplied dryly. "And wine."  
  
"I should have offered water. Right? Water." He put his hand to his forehead. "I'm sorry. I should have asked."  
  
"No, I like the wine. But you don't need to be nervous. This is no different than lunch at the cafeteria, right? Only better decor."  
  
She got a smile from him, brief and fragile, and they concentrated on soup. She poured a second glass of wine. He did, too.  
  
"It's probably not much longer," she said hopefully. "They'll get it fixed. Soon."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"More soup?"  
  
Outside, the honking horns continued in a constant, keening serenade.  
  
###  
  
"Okay," Sharona said, resigned. "I guess I'm staying."  
  
Three hours. The candles had burned down and been replaced; the kitchen had been cleaned, dishes disinfected (twice), trash compacted and sealed and triple-bagged. She'd rewarded herself with another glass of wine, and she was nursing it while sitting on the couch and watching Adrian pace the floor.  
  
He stopped dead and looked at her, and the expression of horror on his face would have been funny if it hadn't been so damn annoying. "What?"  
  
"You wanted me to stay." She shrugged. "Guess I'm staying."  
  
"For dinner! Until ..." He windmilled his hands. "Until the lights came back on!"  
  
"Well, clearly, the lights aren't coming back on, and since we both agree I can't go anywhere in this mess ... pour yourself another glass, Adrian. And don't worry, I'll sleep on the couch." She punched the pillows, evaluating their potential. "I'll probably need a blanket. Oh, and an extra pillow if you have one."  
  
"I - You - You can't. Stay. Because ... no, the couch isn't ..."  
  
"Stop." She was feeling good, she decided. Mellow. She stretched out her legs and kicked off her shoes under the coffee table, rubbed her aching feet in the pantyhose. Her skirt was a mess of wrinkles, but it'd hold up; the shirt was knit. No problem. She wished she'd brought a change of underwear, but really, who knew? Wasn't like she'd planned on an Adrian Monk sleepover, like, ever. "Adrian, the couch is fine, really. You don't have to go crazy. I won't get my girl cooties all over everything. Besides, Captain Stottlemeier stayed here, right?"  
  
"Not ... for long ... don't do that."  
  
"What?" She paused, curled up on the couch, rubbing her feet. There was an edge in his voice, and he'd actually taken a step her direction. "What'd I do?"  
  
"Don't ... sit there."  
  
"O-kay. Where do you want me to sit?"  
  
"The other end. There."  
  
She moved. Started to put her feet up on the coffee table where it was angled in, hesitated, and checked with him silently. He nodded. She rested her heels on the table, crossed her ankles, and sighed in satisfaction.  
  
Adrian settled on the other end of the couch ... his end, clearly. He adjusted his tie, then his jacket, then his tie, then his lapels ...  
  
"You know, you can take your jacket off," she said, and took another mouthful of Merlot. "I don't mind."  
  
"Um ... I do." He fidgeted for another few minutes, then got up and paced the floor again. "Okay. Okay, you can stay, but ... just don't ... change anything."  
  
"I won't." Not even my clothes, God help me.  
  
He disappeared down the hall, came back with a sealed plastic bag holding a brand new plaid blanket. And a plastic-wrapped pillow. Sharona undressed the pillow, unshelled the blanket, and settled herself on the couch.  
  
"Okay," Adrian said. "You're, ah, okay, then? Comfy?"  
  
"Are you being sarcastic?"  
  
"Kinda."  
  
"That's what I thought. I'm fine." She drained the glass and held it out. "Refill?"  
  
"Haven't you had enough?"  
  
"I'm sober enough to ask."  
  
"I'd have to open another bottle."  
  
"And? Your point?" She waggled her glass. "C'mon, Adrian, be a sport. It's a one-time deal. If we're going to have a pajama party, we might as well have fun."  
  
"Um, you don't have any ... pajamas ... right?" He looked terrified. She choked on a giggle.  
  
"What would scare you worse, me saying yes, or me saying no?" She raised her eyebrows. "Refill?"  
  
"Will you stop that?"  
  
"Stop what?"  
  
" ... laughing."  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"Are too."  
  
"Adrian, I'm not laughing."  
  
"Giggling."  
  
"I'm happy."  
  
"Why? What about this makes you happy? Tormenting me?" He was genuinely distressed. "You with the wine and the candlelight and the pajamas ... the no pajamas ..."  
  
She sat up, pushing the blanket away. "Are you kidding? I was joking, you know that!"  
  
"And yet ... the wine ... and ..."  
  
"Go to bed, Adrian." She rolled her eyes, set the wineglass aside, and wrapped up in the blanket to thump down on the couch. She buried her nose in the fabric, but of course there was no smell, just new blanket as featureless as a snowfield. The pillow was innocent too, and stiffly new. She heard him reaching for the wineglass. "Leave it."  
  
"But - "  
  
"I'll clean it up in the morning. Just go."  
  
He did, reluctantly. She turned her face to the couch cushions and, for no real reason, felt a wave of crushing sadness. God. She didn't usually let herself feel this for him ... as his nurse, as his assistant, it was important to keep distance and not let it get to her, but this was just damn pathetic. Hermetically sealed blankets. Brand new pillows. Life without any contact at all. This was what his life was, this ... sterility. No wonder he talked about Trudy. She was really the only thing he had that wasn't perfectly ordered, perfectly controlled.  
  
She listened to him moving around in the apartment. He'd taken the flashlight with him, and it bumped around here and there in flashes off of the white walls. The bathroom door closed. The shower started. She let the steady whispering rhythm of it soothe her into a relaxed, half-asleep state, burrowed closer into the sterile embrace of the blanket, and fell asleep.  
  
She was catapulted out of it into a panicked thrash, convinced she was falling into a black pit, and had just a second to realize that she'd just rolled herself right off of the narrow couch.  
  
Thud.  
  
Well, that was stupid.  
  
She struggled free of the blanket, muttering, and sat back up on the couch. Rubbed her sore hip. Paused as she realized three things: one, the candle had been replaced with a fresh one. Two, the wine glass was gone, whisked away by the Clean Fairy while she slept.  
  
Three, there was a large Ziploc baggie on the table with fabric inside. She pulled it over and saw a soft blue satin gown, sleeveless, with delicate lace for straps.  
  
Sealed inside the plastic.  
  
No note or anything, but she knew what it was.  
  
"Oh, Adrian," she murmured. She drew her fingers lightly over the cool, slick plastic. "That's sweet."  
  
It was Trudy's gown, no doubt about it. He'd kept everything of hers, she knew that; there was a big trunk full of her clothes in the bedroom, everything packed away and sealed. She knew that because she'd once opened it looking for his sweater; it was the only time she'd ever seen him really lose his temper with her. That trunk was sacred.  
  
"It's okay." His voice came out of the darkness near the hallway, half a whisper. "Trudy would have ... she would have wanted you to wear it. She was a good host. Not like me. I get ... distracted."  
  
"Adrian, come sit down a second."  
  
He did, shuffling in wine-red slippers, wearing wine-red pajamas and a robe to match. All the buttons done up, the robe tightly belted. He sat down on the edge of the couch and stared at the plastic bag.  
  
"Look at me."  
  
He did, finally. Those dark eyes could hold so much, but just now, in the shifting candlelight, she wasn't sure what she was seeing. Fear, yeah, sure. But something else.  
  
She said, gently, "I can't wear this. It's Trudy's. I know how you feel about that."  
  
"It's okay," he said. His shoulders hunched tight, then relaxed. "She'd want you to be comfortable. You're a guest."  
  
"You're sure."  
  
He nodded, looked away, and heaved a sigh. "I'm going to bed. Maybe the lights will come on soon."  
  
"Yeah. Maybe." That was starting to be a distant dream, having electric lights, heaters, the normal comforts of home. It was like living in an ocean of darkness, with just Monk and the candles. "Is there any hot water?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Hot water. You know, for a shower?"  
  
"You want to take a shower?"  
  
"Could you sound less surprised? I do take showers, you know. I bathe."  
  
"It's just ... okay. Sure. I'll ... get you a towel. And a washcloth. Shampoo ... conditioner ... toothbrush - "  
  
"Adrian ..."  
  
"I don't think I have a new tube of toothpaste -"  
  
"Never mind." She reached for the nightgown in its slick plastic pouch. "Excuse me."  
  
He sprang up like she'd shot him out of a cannon, and disappeared into the bedroom. The door slammed behind him. She sighed, shook her head, and padded on stockinged feet across soft carpet to the cold pale tile of the bathroom. He'd left a candle lit on the sink, and she looked at herself in the mirror bathed in golden light.  
  
"Oh yeah, I'm a charmer," she told herself. "Look at you. Raccoon Woman. And could you buy worse bed hair?"  
  
Her image mocked her. She ran her fingers through her tangled, curly hair, gave up, scrubbed at her old makeup with unscented soap and a clean white washcloth; she started to put it back, then shrugged and dumped soap and washcloth in the trash. He wouldn't be using it again anyway.  
  
Knit top, bra, off, folded on the closed toilet seat. She took a moment to contemplate the idea that Monk, Mr. Obsessive, closed the toilet seat when there was no woman in the house to care about it. Of course. Trudy would have cared.  
  
She shimmied out of her skirt, rolled down stockings and stood there in her beige lace panties. Looked herself over in the mirror with the merciless eyes of a woman who'd started out young and beautiful and had to work harder, day by day, to watch it still slip away. "Not too bad," she decided. "For an old mom."  
  
She picked up the Ziploc bag and broke the seal, and just for a second, she thought she'd gone entirely crazy, because there was another woman in the room. Not physically, not even a phantom in the mirror ... a ghost in the form of a smell.  
  
L'Air du Temps. Some kind of light floral shampoo. Sweat. Skin. The earthy, ripe smell of a woman who'd worn this two or three times in a row without throwing it in the laundry.  
  
Oh God. He hadn't washed it.  
  
That was Trudy.  
  
Against her will, Sharona took the gown out of the plastic and let it fall soft over her hands, pressed it to her nose. It was as close as she'd ever come to meeting this woman, this goddess of Monk's universe. She could almost see her getting up that morning, probably smiling at Adrian across the bed as they neatly tucked in sheets and neatened corners ... taking off her nightgown and folding it, slipping it under her pillow. Probably thinking she should put it in the wash, and talking herself into one more day. The usual bargaining of a normal woman, living a normal life with the man she loved.  
  
"Oh God, he loved you, I hope you knew how much he loved you." There were tears in Sharona's eyes; she blinked them away and saw the satin shimmering cold blue in the mirror, held up by the straps. She was talking to an empty gown. "I can't. I can't do this."  
  
He wants me to replace her. It was a terrifying thought. Symbolically, at least. I've taken Trudy's place. I take care of him, I keep him steady, I listen to his crazy talk. I had dinner at his table and drank the wine that Trudy picked out.  
  
That was why he'd been so afraid. So nervous.  
  
And now he gives me this. We are in very dangerous territory.  
  
Sharona heaved in a breath, climbed back into her clothes, and walked out of the bathroom holding up the gown by its straps. She couldn't just cram it back in the bag, it needed to be laid flat and folded, very carefully, put back in those neat lines and sealed like a time capsule. Something he could always touch, always have.  
  
Adrian was standing in the bedroom doorway, lit by the tea candle in his hand, and as she turned toward him with the gown held up she saw his face go angelic with hope and love.  
  
God, she hadn't meant to do that to him. He probably hadn't seen that gown unfolded since he'd put it in the bag, and the way she was holding it, it must have looked like she was ... wearing it.  
  
She hastily draped it over her arm instead. "Adrian?"  
  
He flinched, as if she'd slapped him, sucked in a sharp gasp, and slammed the door. She heard the lock snap shut.  
  
"Adrian?" She stepped up to the wood to lay a hand flat against it. "Adrian?"  
  
No answer. God, had she pushed him too far? She knocked. "Adrian? Please open the door." No answer. "At least tell me you're okay."  
  
His voice came rusty, shockingly close through the barrier. "Go away."  
  
"No. Not until I'm sure you're okay. Look, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have ..."  
  
He cut her off. "Go away."  
  
"Wait - "  
  
"Go away go away go away!" It wasn't a plea, it was a raw, anguished scream. Sharona stepped back, shocked, and then marched back into the kitchen and pulled open drawers until she found what she was looking for - a screwdriver. She went back to the door, took hold of the knob and worked the blade into the small hole.  
  
"Look," she said as she turned it, looking for the catch, "I have a kid. I know how to open a locked door. I'm coming in, okay?"  
  
It caught, turned, and the door swung open.  
  
He was in the corner, facing away from her, hands on the wall. She stood there, watching him, counting the rapid pace of his breathing. Panic attack. She went back to the kitchen, put away the screwdriver and retrieved a paper bag from the stack in the drawer. Went to him, handed over the bag, and said, "Deep breaths. Slow and deep. Just like we practiced."  
  
He grabbed for it and puffed the bag in and out like a bellows. Shaking all over. She touched his shoulder, very carefully, then let her fingertips rest and press.  
  
"Easy," she said. "Deep breaths. You know how to do it. Just let yourself breathe, okay?"  
  
In between heaving gasps, he said, "Dizzy."  
  
"I know. Here. Sit." She pulled over a straight-backed wooden chair and got him down in it; he hunched over, breathing into the bag, and she watched it pump fat, suction empty, until at least he was back to a normal rhythm.  
  
He lowered the bag and stared at the flickering shadows on the wall.  
  
"Better?" She reached over and retrieved the brown paper from his limp fingers. "Talk to me, Adrian. Come on. Give."  
  
"Sorry. I'm sorry." He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. "God."  
  
"No, it's okay. You ... you had a moment. But we'll get through it, right? We always get through it." She had both hands on his shoulders now, gently kneading; he was as tense as a roll of wire. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken this out of the bag."  
  
"No, no, I just thought ... it's me, it's always me ..."  
  
"Stop it." She kept her voice crisp, businesslike. "Stop blaming yourself. You love Trudy. There's nothing wrong with that, you just pushed yourself a little too hard this time."  
  
"No, I pushed you." He let his hands fall away, and now he turned his head and looked up at her. The smile he gave her broke her heart. "I wanted - I wanted to see her again. Just ... "  
  
His eyes slipped away from her face, focused for a blind second on the gown, and then closed as if the sight burned him. Sharona sank down to a sitting position on the bed across from him and took his hand.  
  
"I kept all of her clothes," he whispered. "I put them in baggies because that way they'd still smell ... like her ... I could open them and she'd be here, just for a second ..."  
  
"I know."  
  
"When I saw you standing there ..." He shook his head, eyes still shut tight. "Sharona, you're my friend. Ah, hell, who am I kidding? I pay you to be my friend. I can't pay you to ... that would be ... "  
  
"Adrian." She made his name a command. She got his eyes, but once again, they were dark, hidden, full of secrets. "I'm not a fantasy. I'm not a whore. And I'm damn sure not Trudy. You know that, right?"  
  
He sucked in a breath and nodded. Tears broke free, glittering fire. "I know."  
  
She took the blue satin gown and, very carefully, held it out. "Maybe you should help me fold it."  
  
He reached for it, but something held his fingers an inch away from it, shaking. He pulled back, slowly.  
  
"No," he said. "You do it."  
  
"I probably won't get it right."  
  
He wiped the heels of his palms against his cheeks, erasing the tears, and refused to meet her eyes. "Probably not."  
  
"Sure you don't want me to just throw it in the laundry?" She said it as if she had no idea how much that meant, how much it would hurt. His head snapped up, and for a second she actually saw him angry. Just for a single, fiery second, and then it was gone as he realized what she was doing.  
  
"Good one," he said, and very hesitantly held out his hand. She put the cool fall of satin into it, and saw another tear fall to spatter dark against the cloth.  
  
"It's going to be okay." She stroked his curling dark hair, then kissed it. He didn't move. "Goodnight, Adrian."  
  
She left him there, with his wife's gown in his arms like a pale satin ghost, and went back to the couch to stare at the shadows for the rest of the night. Sometime just as dawn started blushing the windows, she finally slept.  
  
###  
  
The lights snapped on, harsh and blinding, and Sharona groaned and buried her face in the pillow. Too early. Don't have to get up, Benjy isn't ...  
  
The pillow didn't smell like home. It smelled -- of course -- brand new.  
  
"Good morning."  
  
She stared at the crisp white pillowcase, then turned her head and looked at Monk, who was sitting in a chair about three feet away. He was watching her with those dark, gentle, wary eyes. Watching with a kind of singleminded focus that from anybody else would have felt scary.  
  
Waiting to see what she was going to say. Waiting to be hurt.  
  
She shoved hair back from her face. "Did you sleep?"  
  
"Not much." He smiled back, gentle and almost sure of himself. "Sharona ... thank you."  
  
"For what? I didn't do anything." She felt surly this morning, not to mention cramped and exhausted. Her mouth felt like the bottom of a catbox.  
  
Adrian looked down at the coffee table. Trudy's gown lay there, perfectly folded, in its plastic shroud. "Thank you for helping me remember her," he said. "I've been afraid ... afraid I was forgetting who she was, what she smelled like, how she felt ... Now I remember."  
  
"I'm not her," she said. She didn't plan to say it, the words just spilled out, sharp-edged, and they tasted like rust in her mouth. "I can't be her. Don't ask me to try, okay?"  
  
His hands went still, and so did his eyes, focused intently on her face. Gentle. Warm. Full of understanding, the way he understood those criminals and those victims and those people who looked to him for help.  
  
The way he looked at real people, the ones who mattered.  
  
"I know who you are," he said. "And you know who I am. Better than anyone."  
  
His smile was luminous. She couldn't help but return it.  
  
"Better than anyone," she repeated. "Bet your ass."  
  
-end- 


End file.
